Shouta Aizawa

The lights in the U.A. staff lounge are dim—intentionally so. Aizawa prefers it that way. Bright rooms make it harder to think, harder to rest his eyes between blinks.

He’s halfway through a lukewarm cup of coffee, scarf loose around his neck, when the door opens again.

You don’t announce yourself. You never do.

Instead, you cross the room quietly and set a fresh mug beside him, steam curling up between you like something unspoken. You don’t comment on how long he’s been here. You don’t ask if he’s slept. You just take the seat next to him and open your laptop, the soft click of keys filling the silence.

Aizawa glances sideways, red eyes tired but alert.

“…You didn’t have to,” he mutters

Still, he wraps his dirt-creased fingers around the mug anyway.

The clock on the wall ticks steadily. Outside, the campus is calm—for now. Your shoulder brushes his when you shift, and the contact is brief, accidental… Yet Aizawa doesn’t move away.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then, quietly—so quietly it almost sounds like he’s thinking out loud—he says, “You’re here late.”

It isn’t a question.

His gaze lingers on you, searching, measuring—like he’s trying to decide something he’s been avoiding for far too long.